Rehabilitation
by thatonecoolkid
Summary: John's final project is to oversee the rehabilitation of one Sherlock Holmes. He could never have guessed what a difficult project said young man would turn out to be. College aged- AU teenlock rated M for a very good reason.
1. Sick

**Wrote this one very, very early in the morning, since that's when it seems I do my best writing.  
Sherlock is the property of BBC, I just bend him to my will with the use of fiction :)  
If anything I write is incorrect (since I'm not very familiar with how rehab centers work yet) feel free to let me know, and I will fix it or do more research accordingly.  
Updates will probably be irregular since my schedule is a bit nuts, but rest assured they will come!**

"That's it, just get it all out. Better out than in, eh?" said John Watson as he bent over to pick up the tray full of puke on the table. He handed his newest charge a damp towel and carefully carried the tray to the toilet, trying very hard not to look in it as he flushed it away. He walked back to the man with the mass of lank black hair, and set the tray back down in front of him. He sighed at the poor kid, who couldn't have been any older than himself, 19, that was emptying his stomach before him. He picked up the clipboard that the nurse had set on the counter, scanning it to see what was expected of him at the moment to check the patient in.

John glanced over, studying the man who was barely upright on the table. The dark haired boy was very pale, although that could have been an effect of the copious amounts of cocaine in his system. The man had a square face and sharp cheekbones. John thought that when the man had sobered up some he would be handsome, but only in the way that men with razor sharp cheekbones and large well shaped lips were handsome; and my were those lips divine, even sweaty and pale they could give anyone a bit of a hard-on._ If_ _the man was a woman and not overdosed_, John thought, _he would gladly make use of them_. John shook his head, laughing a bit to himself for the absurd thought, since he was extremely straight and had absolutely no reason to be so fixated on the man's lips. John shook his head again, returning his thoughts to the chart.

The doctor in the corner, a 40 year old scrawny guy named Anderson, scoffed at the man on the bed. Anderson was observing John's work with his dark, almost beady eyes, since this patient's rehabilitation was his final project. If his charge didn't graduate from the program, John would fail his undergraduate thesis in rehab care. John hoped that if he did well he would be invited to work with this facility, the Sanctum Rehabilitation Center in Middlesex. The center happened to be the best rehab center in England.

John was violently tugged back to earth by the sound of the man retching beside him. Anderson got out of his chair and left the room with another scoff and a good luck. _I'll need it_, John thought as he waited for the man to finish. When he was, John grabbed the puke tray and headed to the bathroom once again. When he returned, his charge was laying back on the bed, passed out. John tsked at the man, lifting his long, equally pale and absurdly shaven legs gently onto the bed, covering him with a thin sheet on the paper covered table when he noticed the raven haired boy shivering.

John sat in the chair and rubbed his eyes until he could see white squares dancing across his vision, and looked up when he heard the door open and shut. Anderson was back to check on the man sweating on the bed, and to assign him to his room.

"We'll just put him up as soon as we get his vitals. He should be good; we had to pump his stomach and everything else he's gotten rid of already. His brother, a Mr. Holmes, is in the waiting room. Go reassure him of his brother's condition and direct him to the receptionist." said Anderson as he began manhandling the patient. John always wished he would be gentler with the patients, but was much too intimidated by his rude instructor to tell him that. He would probably be fired on the spot.

"Of course. Need anything else?" John asked.

"Yeah when you get back here, you get to give this chap a wash." said Anderson with a self satisfied grin. John sighed and headed to the waiting room to confront the brother. The only person in the waiting room now was a stately man in an expensive suit with a black umbrella resting on is knee. John wasn't quite sure why the man had an umbrella when it hadn't rained outside in a week, but he shrugged mentally.

As he made his way towards the man, Mr. Holmes stared him down. John swallowed hard. He didn't like the feeling of being studied like one would study an animal in an exhibit. Clearing his throat, he began to speak.

"Mr. Holmes, you-" John started, and he was cut off. The man stood, and offered John a hand. John took it, shaking. The man had a very firm handshake, and the eye contact was uncomfortable.

"I trust my little brother is doing fine. He seems to be in the utmost of care, as he should be with what I will be paying for this place. Although I do wonder, since you can hear his retching out here. Dreadful business. Anyway, I'll just make my way to the receptionist, and then I'll be on my way. Have a good day, Mr. Watson. You may also want to change your sweater; you've got a little excrement on your sleeve." The tall, but slightly heavy looking man said without missing a beat. He swung his umbrella before him and sauntered down the waiting room to the front desk. John was left there staring after the man in shock, until he realized his mouth was open. He shut it and turned around, heading back to the room where his patient and a sponge were awaiting him.

"Well you're awake then." John said as he walked into the stark white room, noticing the boy had sat up. It was hardly inviting, and he was glad the guest's rooms looked much better than this. He spotted the pile of fresh clothes on the chair, a pair of grey sweats and a worn looking T-shirt. There was no doubt the patient would have his own clothes transported to his room, especially considering what his brother was like. John walked over to the tub of lukewarm water on the counter and grabbed the sponge, squeezing it to get some of the water out. He circled around to his patient's back, who seemed to be unusually clear of mind and wary of his presence. He reminded John of a cornered animal for a moment. John took in the wide eyes and small pupils and he walked very carefully, so as not to spook the man on the table. You could never tell how people coming off a high like this would react to anything, so it was best to be as non-threatening as possible.

"We're just going to clean you up a bit and send you up to a much more comfortable place to rest your head, alright?" John said in as soothing a voice as he could muster. The man on the table grunted at him, and John thought it odd that this patient seemed to be recovering so quickly from a near overdose. It was possible for patients with high mental capabilities to recover faster, but it was seen very rarely. John touched the sponge to the patients back, and the man jumped slightly from the air-cooled sponge.

"There, there, Mr. Holmes, it'll only take a second." muttered John as he began wiping down the sweaty man. John heard him mutter something, and asked him to say it again.

"Just... Sherlock." said the man faintly.

"Alright Sherlock, we'll get you out of this dreary old room in no time. Lift your arms please." said John, as he continued wiping Sherlock clean.

John walked over to the other side of the room and grabbed the bundle of clothes. He heard paper crinkle, and something thud to the ground. He dropped the bundle in his hands and went over to help Sherlock off the floor.

"Well what did you go and do that for?" asked John, bending to haul the man to his unsteady feet and sit him up on the table.

"I can do it... myself," muttered the man in a hoarse voice as he started to stand up again, grabbing for the sponge. John rushed over to him and pushed him down by the shoulders firmly, making him sit back on the table. For a man who had recently nearly overdosed, Sherlock seemed determined to do things for himself. _It looks like this won't be an easy one, _thought John. He sighed internally as he fought with the weak man to put his clothes on while Sherlock tried in vain to stand on his own. When John finally gotten the pants on him, he had to call for help, since Sherlock was fighting as hard as his weak body could manage. It took two men to get his shirt on, and a third had to give Sherlock a sedative so he wouldn't hurt himself. Sherlock gave John a hard look as he passed out, and John sighed, this time aloud. _This is going to be the longest project of my life._


	2. Withdrawals, Or The Lack Thereof

**Okay, this is really late, so I hope none of you are too mad I haven't updated in forever. Very busy, College and whatnot. Anyhow here it is.  
Again, if there are any details that are off, let me know in a review and I will do what I can to fix them.  
These characters are not mine. woot  
**

"Good morning, Ms. Hudson. It's nice to see you again. How's the hip?" John asked the short woman sitting behind the desk. It was to be his first morning checking on his new patient, and he had just walked into the center. He always admired the place. Since it was a very high-class rehab center, the entrance had a small fountain in the middle, and when you walked into the reception room, a line of potted trees and flowers greeted you. It was quite beautiful, even if sometimes the patients were a sore sight to see. You could almost forget the building was full of physically and mentally sick people on the mend.

"I'm doing just fine, John. What can I help you with dear?" said Ms. Hudson. She was a kind woman, and had short curly brown hair. She was wearing scrubs with keys on them and her nails looked freshly manicured.

"Just need to know where my newest patient got put. His name is Sherlock Holmes?" said John cheerily. He liked Ms. Hudson very much; she was always there with a smile and a kind word to any of the patients she happened to be there.

"Alright, one second I'll look it up. Ah, looks like he's in 221 B. Can you remember where that is?" she asked him, teasing now. The day he first met her he was trying to find his way to a patient's room. Somehow, he found himself at a closet, where Ms. Hudson was just emerging. She wasn't looking and knocked John's coffee cup with the door, spilling it all over the floor. He had explained to her that he was in a hurry and did not have time to clean up the mess, and she had just shooed him off, saying, "I might be housekeeping, but I am not _your _housekeeper."

"Thanks, Ms. Hudson." said John, and with a small salute he headed off towards the Baker wing of the facility. 221 was on the third floor, and it always bothered him that the room numbers didn't match up with the floor numbers. John nodded to a couple people on his way, and he finally got to 221 B. He passed the man that was coming out with the cleaning cart, and the man saw where John was headed, and walked off with a laugh. John paused outside the door, wondering what that was all about. He shrugged and continued in the door. John realized very quickly, why the cleaning person had laughed at him.

Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his back to the door. He had his elbows on his knees, his hands folded somewhere in front of his face. His black hair, which was lank and dirty the night before, was now shiny and curly, disheveled as if hands were raked through it. All of this was normal, but then John realized that Sherlock was completely naked and shut his eyes quickly. He realized how foolish that was, _he was training to be a rehab doctor, nakedness should NOT bug him_, John thought and opened his eyes, a blush staining his cheeks.

The room around him was in chaos. He had apparently gotten the things he was allowed to have in his room and then some. There were clothes strewn across the floor, books stacked in the corners and filling the small bookshelf next to the bed. The lamp was on its side and _is_ _that a human skull_? John thought, bewildered. He was interrupted from is survey of the room by a black loafer hitting him directly in the center of the forehead. John grabbed his face and yelped a little, stepping back a few paces.

"What the bleeding hell do you think you're doing!" he yelled at Sherlock. The pale man in the center of the floor shrugged a little, his shoulders flexing with hidden muscle.

"Thought you were the cleaning man." Sherlock said simply.

"And why on earth would you think it's okay to hit the housekeeping with a shoe?" asked John, wondering, not for the first time, just what he'd gotten himself into.

"He wanted to take my skull." said Sherlock, swiveling around to face John. For a split second, John's eyes flashed southward, but he soon found his way back to Sherlock's eyes. He looked much better this morning; actually, he looked like he was already past the withdrawals. John was secretly glad he wouldn't have to deal with this man going through withdrawals. He still had pale skin but his eyes were sharp and greener than they were yesterday. Looking into those eyes John could sense a profound intelligence, and he wondered what kind of circumstances would contribute to him being in a rehab facility. He didn't seem like the kind of people he got in regularly, with nothing to live for and nobody to go to. He obviously had a brother who had money, and he didn't look stupid or useless. The man was a mystery to John, but one he found he wanted to crack.

"Well, I'm not sure about keeping a skull. I don't think that's something I can let you keep, but I'll check." John said. Sherlock reached for another loafer and chucked it at him, this time John had the sense to duck.

"It's plastic. The skull stays." Sherlock said simply. John guessed there was nothing against having a plastic skull, but for some reason he doubted the skull was actually plastic. He figured there were battles you could win, and sensed that this was not one of them.

"So, how were the withdrawals?" John began, attempting to continue with business as usual. They had a group session in a half hour, and he was hoping to actually be there on time. "Any stiffness or nausea?"

"I did not experience any more withdrawals after ridding myself of the substance." Said Sherlock, still not bothering to cover himself or put anything on.

"You what? No withdrawals? What are you superhuman? Please God tell me they didn't assign me to Superman." John said, only partially joking. He was honestly confused as to why his patient hadn't experienced _any_ withdrawals.

"I do not let my body control me. That's a personal rule of mine. The mind is sound, and the body is not, however the mind has the capacity to carry the body on its metaphorical shoulders at the times in which the body is weak. The mind conquers the body's needs, and a man can function as highly as possible.," said Sherlock, speaking in a fast clip as if he were racing to get each word out before he ran out of breath.

"That's insane. And also very interesting." John said in a somewhat faraway voice, as if he were trying to work through what the other had said. John shook his head incredulously, cleared his throat louder than was necessary, clapping his hands together and swaying on his feet.

"Okay let's get some clothes on, we need to go down to breakfast and get to your first session." Said John in an authoritative tone.

"I don't eat breakfast." Said Sherlock, as he got up and put on pants and trousers, and a rather tight fitting purple shirt. The pale man also put on a suit jacket as John stared at him inquisitively.

"Normally, patients will just wear T-shirts and jeans? There is no dress code in a rehab facility, John said with a chuckle.

"I am not most patients." said Sherlock with a barely decipherable note of disgust in his voice.

That you are not, John thought.

"Let's at least try to get down to breakfast on time." John said aloud and headed out the door and down the hall. Sherlock stood in the room for a few moments, wondering how long he could wait until his caretaker came back. When he didn't, Sherlock stuck his head out of the door and saw John was nearing the end of the hallway. Sherlock ducked back into his room, grabbed a blue and black checkered scarf and ran out the door to catch up with him.

Both men were thinking how strange the other was.

**On the topic of Ms. Hudson, she is a bit OOC but I really think she should be developed more in canon. I imagine her as a lot more spunky than she is portrayed. I mean, she put her own husband in jail for god's sake. Ms. Hudson is great, so if you can forgive me a bit of OOC-ness, that would be lovely.**


End file.
